


Ten Cent Pistol

by Smokemycancer



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smokemycancer/pseuds/Smokemycancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling back in love is easy. Getting away with it is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover

 

 

_"Stars did fall_  
 _Thunder rolled_

  
_Bugs crawled back_  
 _In their holes_

  
_The couple screamed_  
 _But far too late_

  
_Cause a jealous heart_  
 _Did retaliate"_


	2. Daddy

  
Part One: Kingpin

_Daddy_

 

Natalie, she liked to play with the most moronic toys ever conceived. She was four years old and still clung to the damn farm wheel Mandy got the brat for her first birthday. Some stupid yellow thing that called out animal sounds by the touch of each button. She took that toy everywhere. Svetlana claimed the clinging was because of the noise, but Mickey knew better. Knew it was because Mandy bought it; Natalie loved her aunt Mandy probably more than cupcakes, which was saying quite a lot. So now that Mandy died, especially since the funeral, Natalie even slept with that hard piece of plastic. Pressed right against her tiny, pink cheek. Just like it was now.

The light from his daughter’s Tinkerbell shadow box danced around the walls. Cast shadows of wings and pixie dust that swept over Mickey’s knitted face as he stood by the midget bed, hands in his jean pockets.

The clock above the stove when he’d first walk in said 2:13AM. Late enough for Svetlana to be home and yet still she wasn’t. Mickey wondered if she thought that the spa would crumble without her ever waking presence. Or maybe she was out fucking somebody new this week, fell asleep in John Doe’s condo. Crying about how much she loves her husband and hates that he will never feel the same.

Sighing, Mickey sat in the recliner by Natalie’s bed, kicked an ankle over his knee. Casually, he reached over and carefully removed the toy from his daughter’s steel grasp. Turned it over his his hands, examining. So engrossed that he missed the body beside of him sit up and place her stumpy legs over the bed.

Rubbing her eyes with balled up, poor excuses for fists, Natalie yawned, “Daddy?”

Alert, Mickey sat the toy in his lap and looked her over. She’d been put to bed in her jeans. The waist has left marks against her stomach. He frowned, then shrugged it off. The nanny Svetlana hired sucked. He’d just fire the bitch. “Hey punk,” he whispered, smirked, lightly slugging Natalie’s knee.

“What are you doing with my wheel?” Natalie asked, reaching for the toy and hugging it against her.

Mickey arched a brow, smiled with stretched lip, and said, “Forgot how chickens sound.” His voice felt booming in the quiet, especially with the door almost shut.

Rolling her cloudy blue eyes, Natalie pushed the white button and watched the wheel spin to the fat chicken. Garbled clucking filled the room.

Chuckling, Mickey leaned back in the chair and rubbed his face. Felt the ball in his throat tighten and threaten to let loose. He took a few deep breaths before running his hands back down his face and into his lap. Seconds later, while he stared at the shadows still dancing around the ceiling, Mickey wrapped his arms around the tiny person crawling into his lap. Wound his fingers into her messy black hair and held her against him. Her warmth was comforting.

“What’s the matter?” her concerned, muffled voice vibrated against Mickey’s grey sweater.

He shook his head and let out a shaky breath. “Nothing,” he assured her, lying through his teeth. Everything was wrong. But none of this was Natalie’s fault and Mickey refused to bring her into his swirling pool of woe and self hate. In fact, wanting to get her far away from it was the main reason for Mickey’s current state of even deeper depression.

“Liar,” Natalie mumbled. She pulled back and touched his wet face, made him look down at her. “Don’t cry, daddy,” she whispered sadly, then kissed him quick and rested her cheek on his neck. Little hands holding tightly to the sleeve of his sweater.

Rubbing her back, Mickey kissed her ear through her hair and kicked up the leg of his recliner. Closed his eyes and drifted to slumber land. Where he would dream of bullets, graves, drug money, and overdoses. Of whores and his baby girl, all grown up in the mix of it. Where she overdosed the same as her dear aunt, with a suicide note on her chest reading, “You’re a bad daddy” in bright blue crayola.


	3. Facial

_Facial_

“He’s had a bad fucking day, I’ll tell you that,” Mickey hissed, sneering out his car windshield. He hadn't slept well, had been plagued by nightmares. And Natalie hadn't either.  Poor kid, she still wet the bed, and being as Mickey had let her sleep on his lap...suffice to say his morning hadn't gone well either. Especially after getting a text from a friend, letting him  know he was being made a fool of.

“Mickey,” a hesitant voice piped up from the backseat. Airy and too soft for a man’s voice, yet belonging to Mickey’s third cousin and buisness buddy in firearms. “It’s broad daylight,” he informed, somewhat condescending. “Are you really going to bust his face in with two policemen parked right next door?” he chuckled. Like the answer was going to be an obvious no.

“What’s your fucking damage? What, I should just let it happen?” Mickey snapped, throwing open the driver’s side door, halfway out when the last word fell from his tongue. He slammed the door shut behind him, heard Jessie rustle about. He turned around to the rolled down window and leaned in so fast that he startled the tatted up sum-bag. Looking into wide green eyes, Mickey breathed out abrupt and heavy. “Fucking stay put,” he bit out, slightly more friendly. Then turned on his heel and straightened out his shirt collar. Undid his duster and threw it atop the car. Mickey rolled his shoulder and cracked his neck as Jessie rolled up the window, muttering curses. Mickey ignored the obvious disagreement and marched onward.

It was daylight all right. Bright and hot for a late winter day. Spring would happen early this year, Mickey figured. So sunny that he could practically feel his nose burning.

Cracking his knuckles, Mickey walked across the street, onto the sidewalk. He reached out and grabbed the handle to his wife’s buisness and yanked open the spa door, sucking in a deep breath for preparation. Regardless of holding his breath, Mickey could smell the oils and incense. Thick in the air, trying to mask the smell of pussy and jizz. As if the local law enforcement was stupid enough to believe this establishment was anything other than a whore house full of Russian illegals and their Johns.

“Mister Milkovich!” Joy, the receptionist greeted, bubbly and smiling with all of her horse teeth. Sat there in a skimpy teal dress, bleach blonde hair pinned up in a mock beehive. Mickey wasn’t sure how she even made him out; her eyes had to be long blind due to all of the shit caked on them. And he made sure to stand a few feet away because of this bitch’s breath. Methed out teeth and rot were the culprit.

The lobby was a tight squeeze. Painted white to try and give the appearance of cleanliness and room. Navy and wooden seats lined the wall behind him. Tables holding magazines and mostly empty ashtrays. Pictures cluttering the walls with all of the currently employed certified “massage therapists.” Which was just a ruse for prostitute selection. Cleaned up so that the pigs with their pretty badges couldn’t actually prove what they knew.

“She here?” Mickey growled back, constant asshole face in check.

Instantly, Joy wound down. Sucking her injected lips, she nodded. “She,” Joy cleared her throat, “is in a meeting.”

“Yeah right,” Mickey huffed. He stomped past the desk, ignoring Joy’s pleas for him to wait.

Adjacent the front desk was a long hallway, lined with door and rooms. At the end was an emergency exit. Mickey stopped halfway down the hall, ears following the sounds of Svetlana’s voice. Standing still, hand on the door knob, Mickey listened for his queue. At the groan of whoever was in there with her, Mickey yanked open the door and barged in.

Sure enough, there she was, bent over the goddamed massage table, skirt up over her shocked face. Plowing into her was the exact man Mickey’d been expecting. Face just as surprised as he began pulling away from Svetlana, hands going toward the pants wrapped around his ankles.

Rage bubbled up in Mickey and he acted quick. Lunged forward and grabbed the bastard, flung him into the table of oils and reading material. He straddled him and punched his face a few times. Mickey couldn’t hear Svetlana begging him to calm down because the blood pumping in his ears was far too loud. Her voice might as well be a fly buzzing behind his ear. One more hit and blood splattered in the other man’s sweaty, blond curls. Mickey stopped, panting. He sat up and wiped his bloody knuckles on his plaid shirt tail. Watched, pleased, as his victim spat out a tooth beneath him.

At some point during the beating, the doorway gained an audience. And also, Svetlana had gotten enough composure to stand up and beat against Mickey’s shoulders with open palms. To which she gave one last smack as she slid on her ass, legs out on both sides awkwardly. Crying. Not from sadness, but more out of defeat. She did that a lot. Cried when she was mad and bested.

Mickey just sat there and breathed, not flinching at the smacks.

At least his wife kept this shit in the family, Mickey laughed to himself when his older brother coughed blood beneath him. Mickey stood up fluidly, letting Svetlana fall forward and tend to the wounded asshole. Meanwhile, he looked back at the crowd of scared women.

“Somebody get me a goddamned towel,” Mickey said, feeling much better now.

Two hours later and he was still feeling like a huge weight was lifted from his shoulders. Elbows propped on the table, he stared across at Svetlana. She was basically playing with her food. The woman hadn’t looked up from the plate since Gina sat it in front of her thirty minutes ago.

“Toss me the salt?” Mickey asked, the sound of his voice almost startling in such thick tension. He continued staring at her until she finally looked up.

She had wiped her face clean of gunk. Tied her hair back and put on a bathrobe. Naked lips pursed, Svetlana glared at Mickey. Rattled off something in Russian before sliding the salt violently into his waiting hand. “You are a piece,” she snarked, shaking her head violently. She pushed a stray hair from her eyes.

Her English was still off and made Mickey snort. “And you’re fucking golddigging whore,” he smiled brightly at her. Drummed his fingers on the table, then said, “Pepper?”

This time the glass vial flew past Mickey’s head and broke against the wall. He narrowly dodged it, eyes wide and face furious as he watched the pepper cloud about before falling into the broken glass.

Fortunately Natalie was with the still unfired nanny at the park.

“Aye!” Mickey bellowed, turning back, mouth agape. “What the fuck, Svetlana?”

She stood up, tossed her napkin down definitely. Stern, yet with her voice lowered, she harped, “You have no right to barge in my shop and scare my girls!”

Mickey rubbed his mouth, held his chin, and stared up at her, eye twinkling because he’d been waiting for this blow up for a long time coming. “Your shop?” Mickey began. “Your girls?” He looked off at the window, curtains thankfully drawn. “Don’t you mean my shop? My girls,” he said. “Because I risked everything!” he boomed, vein popping out on his neck, “to turn that place around. To help you out, give you what you wanted and stop the abuse. But make no mistake, that place belongs to me since Terry’s out of the equation. Not you,” He turned to face her, seeing red and trying to hold back. “Do not,” he warned, “disrespect me like you just did. I’ve got a fucking image to uphold. If I catch you and Sasquatch even breathing the same air,” he trailed. Breathed and shook his head.

“Someone has to touch me!” she yelled out.

“Well it ain’t going to be fucking Colin!” Mickey came back, nearly interrupting her. His face must have scared her because Svetlana lost some of her resolve. “Now sit the fuck down,” Mickey said, lowering his voice, still full of resentment, “and eat.”

And so she did.


	4. Hypocrite

Fast and hard, one and done. Quick shower and get back home. That’s how this thing Mickey had going worked. Find some man at a local bar or gym, fuck his brains out, go home and pretend he was straight. Though he wasn’t sure who he was fooling, or for that matter, had to fool anymore. At this point, he sometimes wanted to cut and leave Svetlana, take Natalie and move someplace where he could finally just be. Could just fucking be himself. But the world was full of impossibilities and that was by far one of them. So Mickey settled for this. Except he was already screwing this up too.

“This is new,” a voice beside him vibrated in his ear. Breath tickling his lobe. “Last time I remember you practically backed out of my house,” he continued, “holding up a cross and hissing at me to get thee back.”

Mickey laughed and elbowed the man in his ribs. He stretched his legs, cracking his ankle in the process, then rolled onto his stomach. The sheets were sticky but Mickey didn’t mind. Folding his arms under his face, he breathed in the scent of sex and Cool Water, wondering what he’d just gotten himself into.

His bed-partner shifted about, sat up with his back against the headboard, squeaking the springs.

One and done meant never seeking out the same man twice. Mickey had been breaking that rule now for going on six times. He’d first met Tyler during the rock climb at the athletic club. Not really Mickey’s type of activity if a person didn’t know him. And actually, no one did. Mickey loved shit like rock climbing. Just anything active and somewhat risky, really.

“Well if you plan on getting crazy again,” Tyler said, smirk to his tone, “do you mind getting dressed first?” He chuckled and thunked his head lightly on the headboard.

Mickey cracked an eye and looked at the fool. Kind of lanky with sandy brown hair cut short and choppy. Narrow features and one hell of a smile. Thin sole patch and mustache. Baby blue eyes that rivaled Mickey’s own. He was nice to look at. And not bad in bed.

“Gina next door called the po-leece last time,” Tyler piped, mocking his southern neighbor’s accent and looking down into Mickey’s open eye. His lips pursed even higher up, devious gleam in his eyes. He licked his teeth.

“Because I was fucking naked? Bet she liked it,” Mickey said and his voice was scratchy. He cleared it by coughing into his arm a few times.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Tyler said, in reference to the coughing, boastful and he rubbed his knuckles into his chest and then blew on them. “Guess next time we’ll give your throat a rest,” he said, wiggling his brows and flicking Mickey’s Adam’s apple.

Fast, Mickey’s arm shot out and grabbed Tyler’s wrist. He twisted slightly, laughing at the other man’s pained groan as he tried freeing himself. Mickey let go and sat up, pressing his own back against the headboard. He rolled his head against the wood and looked at Tyler with a small, soft grin on his face. Sated. He kicked the man’s calf lightly, face relaxed.

Tyler blinked down at the action, smiled, and looked around the room. Mickey figured he wasn’t staring at anything particular. And didn’t mind that Tyler’s attention drifted because frankly, Mickey wanted to study this guy’s chest. The scars, beneath tufts of blonde hair, were curious.

Too bad Tyler had to go and ruin the moment.

“I like you, Mickey,” Tyler suddenly said, licking his lips solemnly, as if he knew what was to come.

Mickey  drew up his face, smacking his tongue, upset. He rubbed his face with both hands and growled in exasperation. “I thought I told you what this was,” Mickey said. He punched the bed half-hearted and stood quickly. Put on his pants because he didn’t locate, didn’t want to bother finding, his boxers. As he buckled his belt, he said, “We had an understanding.” The bed squeaked and Mickey tuned out Tyler’s talking. He interrupted, “Well fuck it! This is fucking done now.”

“No, wait,” Tyler said, urgent as he reached for Mickey’s shoulder while Mickey tugged on his shirt. He sighed when Mickey jerked free, pulled the shirt down, and glared at him. “Forget it,” Tyler said, holding up his hands in surrender, eyes wide and pleading. “I didn’t mean it like it sounded,” he tried to lie. But god damn it was all over his fucking pretty face. That fucking puppy love.

“Don’t!” Mickey yelled. He shook his head, spoke with his hands as he always did when he was angry. “You’re a really piss poor liar, Tyler,” Mickey said, nose wrinkled, brow knitted. He threw up his hands and started for the front door of the very small studio.

“Mick!” Tyler called out and Mickey’s hair stood up.

“Don’t fucking call me that!” Mickey shouted, whirling back around. His eyes grew crazy. He jabbed a finger in Tyler’s direction. “Don’t ever fucking call me that!”

“I’m sorry!” Tyler shouted back, his own features skewering up in self defense. He crossed his arms over his bare chest.

Mickey wondered for a split second when he missed the man putting on his briefs. “Shut up,” Mickey said sourly. He rolled his eyes. “Just drop it,” he said and opened the front door.

Tyler’s laughter was sudden and off putting. Mickey heard it as he stepped outside.

“Oh okay!” Tyler yelled, voice growing more distant while Mickey continued down the stairs of the complex. “Yeah, go back to your sham wife, Milkovich! Have fucking fun with that! Call me when you stop being such a pussy!”

Mickey told himself the ball in his throat was a fluke.


End file.
